Remove ads

A Sword Without a Hilt: A Song of Ice and Fire/D&D 3.5 Crossover

Reader mode
Goldfish said:
Great stuff, ya'll!

The characters were well done, of course, but both of these really stand out for how they further flesh out SD.

@Azel I'm assuming that was Ysilla, Edric, and her cohort who Sandor interrupted?
Click to expand...
Click to shrink...
No, not Edric, but Ysilla was right. You can tell by how she went to the Dany school of intimidating stares.

Granted, she also recognised Leto and thus felt rather secure that she could establish her superiority.
 
Tor (new and better)
Size/Type: Medium Outsider (Native, Shapeshifter, Incorporeal (only while moving))
Hit Dice: 7d8
Initiative: +6
Speed: 30 ft.
Armor Class: 10 +4 (Mithral Twilight Feycraft Chainshirt) +6 (Dex) = 20; 26 while moving
Base Attack: +7/+2
Attack: +9/+4 Touch Attack (1d6 (DC 19 Fort negates) +1Con damage on crit)
Space/Reach: 5 ft./5 ft.
Special Attacks: Spell-like Abilities, Cloying Gloom Blast (DC 21), Detect Thoughts (DC 19)
Special Qualities: Damage reduction 5/Good or Piercing, DR 10/Magic, Darkvision 60 ft., Resistance to Electricity 15 and Cold 15, See in Darkness, Spell Resistance 21, Change Shape (Raktavarna, any Humanoid as Alter Self), Planar Thinning, Incorporeal Step
Saves: Fortitude +9, Reflex +11, Will +6
Abilities: Str 15, Dex 23, Con 18, Int 12, Wis 13, Cha 22
Skills: +20 Bluff, +24 Hide, +11 Knowledge (The Planes), +11 Knowledge (Arcana), +11 Listen, +24 Move Silently, +11 Spellcraft, +11 Spot, +11 Survival; Racial: +4 Bluff and +8 Disguise and Stealth (already included)
Feats: Travel Devotion, Practiced Spellcaster (Sorcerer), Ability Focus (Cloying Gloom Blast)
Alignment: Lawful Evil

Cloying Gloom Blast (Su)

Three times per day, the shadow lord can unleash a 30-foot cone of cloying gloom. On a failed Fortitude saving throw, creatures in the cone are affected by a slow spell (caster level equal to the shadow lord's Hit Dice) and are blinded for the duration of the slow effect.

Planar Thinning (Su)

Once per day as a full-round action, a shadow lord can thin the barriers between the Material Plane and Shadow Plane, making it considerably easier for creatures to cross between the two. This functions like the planar travel aspect of the gate spell (caster level equal to the shadow lord's Hit Dice). This planar thinning is immediately dispelled if in an area of normal or bright light.

Incorporeal Step (Su)

When a shadow lord moves, it gains the incorporeal subtype and quality, including a deflection bonus to AC equal to its Charisma bonus. It loses the incorporeal subtype and special ability when it stops moving.

Spell-Like Abilities CL 7 (DC: 10 +Spell Level + 6):
At will—ray of sickening;
3/day—shadow conjuration, shadow step;
1/day—shadow walk.

A creature created with shadow conjuration or greater shadow conjuration that would normally have a celestial or fiendish template (such as a bear) instead gains the shadow creature template.

Sorcerer CL 7 (DC: 10+ Spell Level + 6):
Level 0: No Light, Message, Detect Magic, Detect Poison, Prestidigitation, Silent Portal (6/day)
Level 1: Touch of Idiocy, Shadow Trap, Touch of Blindness (8/day)
Level 2: Spectral Hand (5/day)


Equipment: Page of Spell Knowledge (Rope Trick), Amulet of PfE, Mithral Twilight Feycraft Chainshirt
 
Last edited:
Thanks azel your omake just made me dawww all for the hound. I want to collecthim like a Pokemon he will be ours. Someday we will ship him maybe with a fallen angel or someone similarly broody as him and they will have their honeymoon over his brothers corpse long rotted no grave for the giant.
 
Azel said:
Granted, she also recognised Leto and thus felt rather secure that she could establish her superiority.
Click to expand...
Click to shrink...
"I can sass him because Leto's here and will protect me."
Mammon: "I've got this urge again. Well. 'TARGARRRYYYYEENN ...'"

Btw., what's a fallen angel that severs its ties to hell? Half-ascended Angel? Pragmatic Angel? Freed Angel?
 
Last edited:
Remove ads
Part MMDCLV: Writ in Bronze and Blood
  • Threadmarks
    • Writ in Bronze and Blood ​

    Twenty-First Day of the Eighth Month 293 AC

    "There is no onus upon bastardy in my realm," you interject gently, offering her a third path.

    "Oh, aye?" she snorts such that one would clearly hear Mors in her even were they not to see the resemblance between them. "Do you have flying pigs there, too? Folk have cursed bastards since the first one came screaming and bloody into the world."

    "No flying pigs yet, no, though there are griffins and dragons," you counter with a smile. Still, with a nod to her fears you add, "People are people no matter where you go and they will find reasons to make each other miserable, but in a city of sixty thousand souls with more pouring in every day from east and west few would even notice one more fatherless child."

    Elda looks to her father who nods. "I've seen things stranger in these last few days than in all my years put together. Spirits and snakes that walk like men, sea folk, and even the Children of the Forest that none knew still walked the world."

    "The Children..." The woman's eyes widen in shock. "Goram swears he saw one as a boy, one of the last he says, that one told him. What are they doing in the South?"

    "I asked them to come to partake in the changing of the world rather than fade away in wild places," you answer simply.

    From the sudden spark of hope in her eyes the implication is not lost on Elda. If the Children of the Forest could come south to start a new life, then why not one woman stolen away from kith and kin? "Alright..." she sighs. "I'll talk to my husband about going south. Even the Magnar himself sees the use of southern trade since the Westerlanders came and helped with the Scouring..." She falls suddenly silent, looking around as though for some unseen watcher, then in a whisper recounts the tale you already know but which is strange and dreadful to Mors, of the dead rising from the barrows of fallen clans, of snows reaching down from the mountains like the very claws of winter only to be turned back by green magic, outlander steel, and the stubborn courage of the Thenns who, perhaps alone among the Free Folk, know not only the fear of the cold and the dark, but remember still how it is to be fought.

    At the tale's end Mors Umber curses for what feels like a full minute, looking like he would very much like to pick up his daughter and walk home, never mind that he is not even here in flesh.

    For the moment you keep silent on the knowledge of that nameless terror coming south, lest you darken the meeting. That news is for the Magnar of Thenn, if indeed he has not yet heard. It is about him that you question Elda, finding much to be hopeful about and perhaps a bit to be worried.

    ***​

    Another servant of Daemons dies to buy you passage through the roots, this one clinging to a small lamp filled with oil blessed by R'hllor. For once you hope the Red God is listening. Mors takes the execution with a grunt of approval, even going so far to offer a grim jest: "It's a wonder the gods didn't start shouting at us for giving them naught but a few drops of blood."

    1 Daemon Cultist Sacrificed

    "They can only shout in certain ears," Dany explains with a small sad smile, obviously thinking of Bloodraven's complaints of the voices of the Green Dream being too loud.

    With that you take that fateful step spanning a thousand leagues and more until you, Dany, Mors, and Waymar who was curious about the runes you had glimpsed in the dreamlands stand in the valley know as Thenn in the flesh. The air is chilly enough to make the Northerner's snow bear cloak more necessity than affection, though the rest of you use magic for the task.

    Smoke rises not far from the grove you had emerged in, a crude but well-maintained path winding down the flank of the hill continuing down through small fields of hardy oats and rye in the place of grain. Somewhere in the distance a goat bleats. This might have easily have been a scene from south of the Wall, perhaps even in Umber lands, to judge from Mors muttering under his breath: "Fuck me, they really are proper folk."

    For all that the looming shadow of the ice-capped mountains is a constant reminder of just where you are, like a subtle chill at the back of your neck. Little wonder these lands would breed, as Elda put it, 'a folk stubborn as mules' and 'hard to move as boulders'.

    It does not take long for someone to notice the four of you, nor to summon warriors from the hall by way of deep booming horns that ring out thrice over the vale. It is not just the weapons of bronze, nor the plates clinking as they run that marks the band coming to meet you apart from other Free Folk. They are ordered and grim, cautious in their approach rather than rushing to meet a foe.


    "Halt!" one calls in the Old Tongue of runes and magic, that to them is just the tongue taken in with their mother's milk. "Who goes there?!"

    "Travelers come on strange paths under the gaze of the gods," you call back, before slowly drawing a dagger to cut your palm and let the blood drip from your fingers, to show that you live and no glamour is upon you. "We would speak to the Magnar of things near and far of great import to the people."

    The man at the head of the band looks you up and down slowly, his eyes fixing upon the pale staff in your hand. "Who are you to bear that?" he asks bluntly.

    "I am Viserys Targaryen, a friend and..." you allow your smile to turn slightly cold. "One who has given much blood to the gods."

    Dark beard twitching in what might have been a fleeting smile, the warrior nods and says: "Come then to our halls and take bread and salt under our roof-tree."

    With these words the warriors fall in around you as deftly as any lord's armsmen to escort you to the longhouse you had seen in the scrying mirror. Mors growls a bit under his breath at having so many armed wildlings around him, but no more. Likely keeping his daughter's words about the difference between Thenns and the other clans in mind as much as he is able, but the hatred of a lifetime are not so easily tamed.

    ***​

    The sounds of talking and clinking cups cut off as you enter the hall, not even the children daring to speak up before so strange a spectacle as you make, for magic is as clear as day upon your arms and armor, most eyes drawn to either your staff or Waymar's rune-carved armor. For all its silence you would judge the mood to be more excited than afraid.

    The man seated at the end of the hall gives no sign of either. Styr, Magnar of Thenn, is a tall lean man who has somehow had both his ears hewn off, wholly bald, and unlike many of his followers clean shaven. He is garbed in bronze scales bright with more than the light of torches, and by his seat lies a weirwood spear tipped with a ornate bronze head, an instrument of sacrifice as much as battle you know.


    Elda had called him a stern man wise at counsel but a fel fighter when the bloodlust was on him, unused to being questioned in his hall and very prickly about perceived slights to his folk. The Farmen men had almost fallen prey to that temper after an ill-thought jest, but once he had seen them fight and die alongside his own warriors against the dead Styr had been generous in his gifts to them.

    What do you say to Styr, Magnar of Thenn?

    [] Write in

    OOC: Hopefully putting in the information about Styr when he appeared rather when you actually got it IC works. I'll get into more detail about the fight against the dead in the next update.
     
    Last edited:
  • Threadmarks
    • firefrog600 said:
    Man I went to new York once I could barely breathe and the smell was horrible I can't imagine a medieval city.
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...
    The smell in a medieval city would be worse by far, but it would probably be easier to breathe, as while it smells like a toilet that hasn't been cleaned in months, there aren't much in the way of car exhausts and such, to make the air unbreathable, so the city would stink permanently, but after the first few hours, you would adapt enough, that it would probably be easier to breathe, than in a normal city.
     
    Wondering what level these guys are. Also their armor I'm not gonna lie looks rather pathetic. Though I don't know what I should be expecting considering where they live.

    My sense of equipment value is rather skewed looking at legion armor as a baseline of adequate at this point.
     
    Last edited:
    DragonParadox said:
    Writ in Bronze and Blood ​

    Twenty-First Day of the Eighth Month 293 AC

    "There is no onus upon bastardy in my realm," you interject gently, offering her a third path.

    "Oh, aye?" she snorts such that one would clearly hear Mors in her even where they not to see the resemblance between them. "Do you have flying pigs there too? Folk have cursed bastards since he first one came screaming and bloody into the world."

    "No flying pigs yet no, though there are griffins and dragons," you counter with a smile. Still with a nod to her fears you add. "People are people no matter where you go and they will find reasons to make each other miserable, but in a city of sixty thousand souls with more pouring in every day from east and west few would even notice one more fatherless child."

    Elda looks to her father who nods. "I've seen things stranger in these last days than in all my years put together. Spirits and snakes that walk like men, sea folk and even the Children of the Forest that none knew still walked the world."

    "The Children..." The woman's yes widen in shock. "Goram swears he saw one as a boy, one of the last he says, that one told him. What are they doing in the South?"

    "I asked them to come to partake in the changing of the world rather than fade away in wild places," you answer simply.

    From the sudden spark of hope in her eyes the implication is not lost on Elda, if the Children of the Forest could come south to start a new life then why not one woman stolen away from kith and kin. "Alright..." she sighs. "I'll talk to my husband about going south. Even the Magnar himself sees the use of southern trade since the Westerlander s came an helped with the Scouring..." She falls suddenly silent looking around as though for some unseen watcher, then in a whisper recounts the tale you already know but which is strange and dreadful to Mors, of the dead rising from the barrows of the fallen clans, of snows reaching down from the mountains like the very claw of winter only to be turned back by green magic, outlander steel and the stubborn courage of the Thenns who, perhaps alone among the Free Folk know not only the fear of the cold and the dark, but remember still how it is to be fought.

    At the tale's end Mors Umber curses for what feels like a full minute, looking like he would very much like to pick up his daughter and walk home, never mind that he is not even here in flesh.

    For the moment you keep silent on the knowledge of that nameless terror coming south, least you darken the meeting. That news is for the Magnar of Thenn, if indeed he has not yet heard. While the dream asks it is about him that you question Elda, finding much tobe hopeful about and perhaps a bit to be worried.

    ***​

    Another servant of Daemons dies to buy you passage though the roots, this one clinging to a small lamp filled with oil blessed by R'hllor. For once you hope the Red God is listening. Mors takes the execution with a grunt of approval even going going on to offer a grim jest: "It's a wonder the gods didn't start shouting at us for giving them naught but a few drops of blood."

    1 Daemon Cultist Sacrificed

    "They can only shout in certain ears," Dany explains with a small sad smile, obviously thinking of Bloodraven's his complaints of the voices of the Greendreaam being too loud.

    With that you take that fateful step spanning a thousand leagues and more until you, Dany, Mors accompanied Waymar, curious about the runes you had glimpsed in the dreamlands stand in Thenn Valley in the flesh. The air is chilly enough to make the northener's snowbear cloak more necessity than affection, though the rest of you use magic for the task.

    Smoke rises not far from the grove you had emerged in, a crude but well maintained path winding down the flank of the hill continuing down though small fields of hardy oats and rye in the place of grain. Somewhere in the distance a goat bleats. This might have easily have been a scene from south of the Wall, perhaps even in Umber lands, do judge from Mors muttering under his breath: "Fuck me they really are proper folk."

    For all that the looming shadow of the ice-capped mountains is a constant reminder of just where you are like a subtle chill at the back of your neck. Little wonder these lands would breed as Elda put it, 'a folk stubborn as mules and hard to move as boulders'

    It does not take long for someone to notice the four of you, nor to summon warriors from the hall by way of deep booming horns that ring out thrice over the vale. It is not just the weapons of bronze, nor the plates clinking as they run that marks the band coming to meet you apart from other Free Folk. They are ordered and grim, cautious in their approach rather than rushing to met a foe.


    "Halt!" one calls in the Old Tongue of runes and magic, that to them is just the tongue taken in with their mother's milk. "Who goes there!"

    "Travelers come on strange paths under the gaze of the gods," you call back, before slowly drawing a dagger to cut your palm and let the blood drip from your fingers, to show that you live and no glamor is upon you. "We would speak to the magnar of things near and far of great import to the people."

    The man at the head of the band looks you up and down slowly, his eyes fixing upon the pale staff in your hand. "Who are you to bear that?" he asks bluntly.

    "I am Viserys Targaryen, a friend and..." you allow your smile to turn slightly cold. "One who has given much blood to the gods."

    Dark beard twitching in what might have been a fleeting smile the warrior nods and says: "Come then to our halls and take bread and salt under our roof tree."

    With these words the warriors fall in around you as deftly as any lord's armsmen to escort you to the longhouse you had seen in the scrying mirror. Mors growls a bit under his breath at having so many armed wildlings around him, but no more. Likely keeping his daughter's words about the difference between Thenns and the other clans in mind as much as he is able, but the hatreds of a lifetime are not so easily tamed.

    ***​

    The sounds of talking and clinking cups cut off as you enter the hall, not even the children daring to speak up before so strange a spectacle as you make, for magic is as clear as day upon your arms and armor, most eyes drawn to either your staff or waymar's rune-carved armor. For all its silence you would judge the mood to be more excited than afraid.

    The man seated at the end of the hall gives no sign of either. Styr Magnar of Thenn is a tall lean man who had somehow had both his ears hewn off, wholly bald and unlike many of his followers clean shaven. He is garbed in bronze scale bright with more than the light of torches and by his seat lies a weirwood spear, an instrument of sacrifice as much as battle you know


    Elda had called him a stern man wise at counsel but a fel fighter when the bloodlust was on him, unused to being questioned in his hall and very prickly about perceived slights to his folk. The Farmen men had almost fallen prey to that temper after an ill-thought jest but once he had seen them fight and die alongside his own warriors against the dead Styr had been generous in his gifts to them.

    What do you say to Styr, Magnar of Thenn?

    [] Write in

    OOC: Hopefully putting in the information about Styr when he appeared rather when you actually got it IC works. I'll get into more detail about the fight against the dead in the next update.
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...
    What happened to his ears?! :o

    You don't realize how accustomed to seeing ears on a person you have become until you see someone without them...
     
    Artemis1992 said:
    The Cloying Gloom Blast has a higher DC with the same duration, so I see little point in that?
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...
    My thoughts were that the Cloying Gloom Blast has a limited range, is indiscriminate in who it affects, and can only be used three times per day.

    Each casting of Touch of Blindness would last one round per caster level, meaning up to seven Touch Attacks can be made per use of the spell, and Spectral Hand has Medium range, so it would give him a much longer reach.

    Knowing Spectral Hand would make it really nice to learn the Touch of Idiocy spell the next time he gains a Sorcerer level, too. There are a ton of creatures who would be completely incapacitated by taking even that much damage to their mental attributes, and it doesn't allow a saving throw. Just a thought.

    EDIT: And DP just ruled that Spectral Hand would allow him to use his normal Touch Attack at range, too, which is really helpful. Spectral Hand also provides a +2 attack bonus to the Touch attempt.
     
    Last edited:
    Reader mode
    You must login or register to reply here.
    Remove ads
    Back
    Top